


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

by ohsinnerman



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohsinnerman/pseuds/ohsinnerman
Summary: Post Punisher Season 1. It's legit been years since I've written fanfic, so I'm probably wicked rusty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't kidding, I haven't written fic in about 10 years. But this ship is just too good. No beta reader, sorry! And sorry for any factual errors! Also, not really sure where this is going, just tryin to have fun with it!

Karen Page doesn’t write the article that the New York Bulletin ends up publishing about the hotel attack on Senator Stan Ori. In fact, Ellison is horrified when she shows up at the office later that same day, the cuts still raw on her face, her hair and clothes still smelling of smoke (and the faintest hint of gunpowder).

“Jesus _Christ_ , Karen,” he hisses when she walks through his office door, jumping to his feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She smiles weakly. The paramedics said she didn’t have a concussion, but her head was throbbing anyway. “We got the exclusive, boss.”

“Right now, I don’t give a shit. You should be at the hospital. Or home, at the very least.” Ellison rubs his hand over his face and takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I’m glad you’re okay. But you need to go home.”

“Have you heard the story that Ori is telling?” Karen barely even hears Ellison’s protests. “I’m sure his office has released a statement already, and I guarantee it’s bullshit. We have to set the record straight.”

Karen’s knees still feel a little wobbly, and she’s embarrassed to realize that Ellison can probably tell when he guides her over to a chair. She sits down anyway.

“Yeah, I was sort of figuring that,” Ellison says, sitting in the chair next to her. “And I do want the full story from you, but Karen, you can’t write this article.”

Karen stares at him, and it’s like what he’s saying is finally coming into focus. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You’re too close to this. If we’re essentially gonna call Ori a complete liar, we need to come off as unbiased as possible. Of course, I believe your word over his, but not everyone will, and you’ve stood up for the Punisher too many times to seem neutral on this.”

Karen almost flinches when Ellison uses Frank’s “vigilante” name. She hates the moniker, what it stands for. What it means.

_For a moment, she’s back in that elevator, leaning against the wall, her ribs aching. Watching as Frank’s eyes dart across the ceiling, already planning, calculating his next move. Blood streaming from the wound on the side of his head, his left arm dangling limply, a jagged piece of metal lodged in his tricep. Jesus Christ. “Frank… Frank.” She reaches out, wanting to do something, anything, and he finally stops. And he looks at her._

“Hey, Karen.” Ellison’s voice finally brings her back, and she’s ashamed to feel her eyes burning, her cheeks hot. Her boss accuses her of being biased, and what does she do? She starts tearing up in his office.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, swiping the flat of her palm across her face, averting Ellison’s narrowed gaze. “I just… I just want the truth out on this.” The truth, it’s all she’s ever wanted.

Ellison sighs. “I know, and we’re gonna tell it. But you’re taking a step back on this one. I want you to go home, write down everything you remember, and email it to Harper. Then I want you to get some rest.”

Karen nods vaguely. She knows Bill Harper, and he’s good; he’s a veteran of the paper, skeptical but insightful. He’ll do the story justice, she thinks. And as soon as she accepts this, exhaustion floods her body. Ellison’s right. This is how it has to be, this time. “Okay,” she says, and she can see the relief spread across his face.

“Okay,” Ellison agrees, and she summons the strength to get to her feet. Just as she’s about to go, he stops her. “Hey,” he says, and to her surprise, he reaches out hesitantly and pats her on the back a couple of times. “Really. I’m glad you’re okay.” It’s so unexpected and awkward and sweet that Karen’s not sure if she’s going to laugh or start crying again.

“Now, get out of here,” he says brusquely, returning to the chair behind his desk, shuffling some papers around.

“Yes sir,” Karen says, mustering up a trace of faux-military sternness, and she thinks she sees him smile just before she turns and closes the door behind her.

Another wave of exhaustion comes over her, and she reaches into her (ruined) bag to grab her phone, before she remembers that it was shattered by the gunshot she had fired into Lewis Wilson’s foot. Seconds after pulling the wire that Frank’s small nod had told her was the right one. A tiny signal she’d bet her life on.

_Then moments later her ears ringing, dust clouding the air, the feel of Frank’s hand cupping the back of her neck, warm and real, bringing her back into the world. “You okay?” The door of the walk-in freezer laying on the floor, the inside coated in blood and brains and—_

She feels nauseous. “Miss Page?” An intern, whose name for the life of her she cannot remember right now, is looking at her curiously. “Can I… help you with something?”

Karen’s gaze darts around the normal, well-lit, office. She’s not in that basement anymore. They got out. Together.

“Yeah, yeah, actually,” Karen says, finally bringing her attention to the kid standing next to her. He and Lewis might have been around the same age. What had he been repeating? _Wait, wait like a soldier._

“Could you call a taxi for me, tell them I’ll meet them outside? Thanks.” She barely hears the intern respond before she’s making her way to the elevators. First step, go home. Write down the story. Get some sleep. After that? She isn’t entirely sure yet.

 

*

 

A month later, and she’s never really gotten the rest that she promised Ellison she would. She knows that he can tell, and while he’s aiming for the grizzled, beleaguered boss vibe, most of the time he still comes off more like the worried uncle; not sure how involved or protective he’s allowed to be. When she’s in a good mood, she finds it endearing, but she isn’t in a good mood very often these days.

As soon as she heard about the hostage situation turned shoot-out at the carousel, she knew exactly what it was. It almost stung that once again it was written off as gang violence, another symptom of living in the city. Of course, there were the signs; Rawlins and Russo seemingly brushed under the rug, unacknowledged as dead or alive, Madani in the hospital with a bullet to the head.

But it was hard to feel indignant about the truth when her heart simply ached, because she knew that he had to be there, the place where his world had been shattered. Someone had made him go there; probably Russo, everything she turned up indicated they had served together, knew each other well. It was personal.

She knew he had been there, and at the same time, she still doesn’t know if he’s dead.

Officially, Frank Castle is at large. A part of her almost feels like they stopped declaring him dead because it was just embarrassing when he kept on showing up alive. And he doesn’t _feel_ dead either, as strange as that seemed to admit. There hadn’t been any more Earth, Wind, and Fire playing in her car, no gravel-voiced homeless men casually calling out her name after she dropped a dollar into their cup. Nothing.

And yet his presence still feels palpable in her world. Like if he were gone, she would feel that void in her chest that she had felt before, when something you rely on is kicked out from under you, when someone you needed to breathe has vanished and left you gasping for air.

And then, her phone rings.

She’s sitting at home, glaring at the blank Word document on her laptop’s screen; the article she’s working on simply doesn’t want to happen. She’s relieved when her phone chimes, grateful for any excuse to stop staring at that empty screen. The number on the phone is unknown, which isn’t unusual for her, but her heart still skips a beat all the same.

She taps a button. “Karen Page.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Uh, yeah, hi. Karen Page?”

Karen’s slightly bemused by the uncertain tone in the voice at the other end of the line. “Yes, this is Karen Page.”

“Ah, good. Hello. Uh, sorry, it’s just weird to finally be talking to you. ‘The girlfriend,’ or whatever,” the man chuckles awkwardly.

Karen’s brow furrows. She’s gotten her share of creepy phone calls since she started working for the Bulletin, but that doesn’t make them any more enjoyable. “Excuse me, but how do you know me? Who is this?”

“Crap, yeah, sorry. This is…” the voice pauses. “Well, I think you might know me as ‘Micro’?”

At this, Karen’s heart full on stops, one hand unconsciously pressed to her mouth. David Lieberman continues, “I believe we have a mutual friend? You know… Huge? Scary? Big on vendettas?”

Karen’s having a hard time getting her voice to work, but when she does it all comes out in a rush. “Is he okay? Where is he? Are you with him?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lieberman responds, and Karen feels a rush of frustration. She doesn’t like being handled. “I realize you must have a lot of questions, but we can’t talk like this. Can we meet? Ah, by the water? You know?”

Karen hesitates, but only for a moment. “Yeah, I know. Okay. When?” She barely notices that she’s started rapidly pacing the length of her small apartment.

“Does tonight work for you? One hour?”

Karen’s heart is pounding again. “Yes.” She can tell Lieberman is about to hang up, and before she can stop herself, she says, “Wait! What did you call me earlier? ‘The girlfriend’?”

There’s a pause, then Lieberman mutters, “Uh, just a little inside joke. What I used to call you. To our friend.” Another moment, and then, “Okay. One hour,” and the phone line goes dead.

And Karen is left standing alone in her apartment, staring at her phone screen, feeling like she’s had the wind knocked out of her, and feeling more sure than ever that her gut was right, that she wasn’t crazy.

That Frank Castle isn't dead.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen and Lieberman get in touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who commented and left kudos!! I wanted this to be longer, but it just kept feeling like I was stretching it out unnecessarily. So hopefully more soon! Apologies for any typos/grammatical/tense errors.

 

Maria had asked him to come home, and he hadn’t. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Her skin, almost impossibly perfect and pale, her hand reaching out to him, offering him rest at last. He was done with everything, wasn’t he? Everything that defined him had been obliterated in Kandahar, in a choice, in a spray of bullets, and ultimately by his own hand. It was all laid on his doorstep, in the end. Wolf and Schoonover were in the ground. He wanted the same for Billy and Rawlins, but Madani had enough to bury them in her own way. He should have been done.

And yet, he hadn’t said yes, hadn’t leaned into that peace.

_I want there to be an after. For you._ Another voice had caught at him, had kept him tethered to his wreck of a body. The idea of an after for himself, of a life that could go on, never free of grief, not really, but also not completely crippled by it. The idea of that heartbroken voice, shattered and desperate and maybe revealing more of herself than she meant to. Unspoken, _an after for you could mean an after for me_. And how his peace, his death might crush that hope.

Simply put, he could not disappoint that voice. Not again. ( _You’re dead to me._ ) He’s let enough people down in his life. Turns out, he still owes the world more.

Despite everything he thought he deserved, he woke up again.

*

Spring has finally started to make its marks on New York City; the wind is no longer as biting, and buds have started to appear on the scraggly, determined trees that line the sidewalks (at least in some neighborhoods). As such, Karen doesn’t need her coat as she stands, looking out at the Brooklyn Bridge. She keeps telling herself that it’s not Frank she’s waiting for, not this time, but anticipation still keeps nipping at her, the fingers of her right hand drumming against her handbag. When had she started doing that?

She hears footsteps behind her but doesn’t turn right away. Maybe subconsciously, she wants Lieberman to underestimate her; she knows that Frank trusted him, to an extent, but that doesn’t guarantee that his allegiances haven’t shifted. And, Lord knows, (a part of her shudders) if Wesley taught her anything it’s that people underestimating her is one of her greatest weapons. Just another pretty blond girl with a bright smile.

“Uh, hi,” the voice is almost next to her, and she feigns a little jump in surprise, but at the same time her right hand quickly slips inside her bag, fingertips resting again her .380.

David Lieberman is lanky, but almost seems to be hiding his height with poor posture. He looks a bit… rusty, out-of-use, like he hasn’t been out in the world for a while. His eyes track her hand though, with the instinct of a survivor, and he holds his own hands up in surrender. “Hey, now,” he says, shaking his head, “You have nothing to worry about from me.”

She doesn’t let down her guard entirely, but something about Lieberman is earnest. She’s read about his family; hell, Frank had told her on this spot how far Lieberman had gone to protect them. She doesn’t say anything, but removes her hand from her purse, slowly. A gesture of goodwill.

To her surprise, Lieberman gives a small laugh. Seeing her slightly curious look, he says, “Sorry, it just… adds up. Frank and you. I can tell you’re not the kinda girl that screws around.”

“Thanks,” Karen says wryly, but the mention of Frank immediately draws her back into focus. “Are you in touch with Frank? Is he…” It seems childish, but she doesn’t want to jinx it, speaking her hopes out loud.

“Yeah, and yeah,” Lieberman nods. “He’s doing okay.”

Karen feels a dizzy for a moment. _He’s doing okay. Present tense._ She grits her teeth a little, as she feels the slight burning behind her eyes. The constant ache in her chest intensifies, then releases, like her heart’s not exactly sure what it’s doing.

“He, ah, wanted me to say hello. Let you know he’s still kicking.” Lieberman runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “I mean, I told him you’d probably want to hear it from him, but he’s stubborn like that. I guess you’re familiar.”

Karen laughs, a small, choked sound. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Lieberman looks at her for a moment, and his gaze is searching, and unless she’s mistaken, almost fond. He reaches into his jacket and she immediately tenses up, until he pulls out a small piece of paper. “Just a phone number, for you. A burner,” he says, handing it over, and she takes it.

He looks a little uncertain, but then he says, “I don’t think he was sure if… I don’t know, if he thought he deserved to talk to you again. But I could tell he wanted to. And when that Lewis kid was threatening you, he…”

Karen feels the tears prickling her eyes, despite how hard she tries to hold them back. Sometimes it’s almost frustrating, how even thinking of Frank makes her feel unmoored. She turns towards the water, tucking the piece of paper into her pocket before letting her hands grip the railing, steadying her.

She can still sense Lieberman looking at her. “He called you his family. And after what he’s lost, and after what he helped me get back, I mean… that’s something he deserves to have again.”

Karen forces herself to look back at Lieberman, and she can tell that he means it. “Well,” she says, knuckles still white around the railing, “That’s something we can agree on.”

Lieberman nods, glancing around. “Yeah, yeah it is.” He turns to walk away but pauses for a moment. “Hey, tell him to bring you around sometime. He owes us a dinner, and I’m sure the kids would love to meet you.” He smiles awkwardly.

_Bring you around sometime_. It’s so ordinary and domestic that the idea has her head spinning. She manages to murmur, “Ah, okay. Yeah,” as Lieberman finally disappears into the darkness. She pulls the phone number back out of her pocket, and the piece of paper flutters a bit in the breeze. She tightens her grip. Despite its size, it almost has a weight to it. It feels like a promise. And for the first time in what seems like weeks, she feels her mouth curve into a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank goes to the library and picks up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who's read!! Hope you enjoy!! (Usual apology for any inaccuracies or typos.)

If any of the men and women in Curtis’ group recognize Frank Castle (which he’s sure some of them must), they don’t give any sign of it. Some of the newer veterans hardly seem to notice him at all. They fidget throughout the meetings, glancing at the floor or the ceiling while others speak, not entirely back within themselves yet. They’re ready to run at any second.

For the most part though, the older ones don’t look away whenever Frank does find it within himself to talk; their gazes are solid and understanding. His voice always comes out rough, out-of-use, and yet whenever he catches someone nodding at something he’s said, something they seem to have felt themselves, he feels less and less like a ghost.

Other than the weekly meetings, Frank doesn’t have much going on. He tries to keep busy, and even though it’s no replacement for the feeling of having a mission, he still tries. Curtis points him in the direction of another construction job (where it’s easy to stay anonymous), and the foreman appreciates his apparent devotion to the job, offers him another gig once that one’s up. He accepts.

Curtis finally runs out of books to loan him, tells him, “Goddamn, man, just get a library card already.” And that’s how Frank finds himself walking into his local branch of the NYPL, hoodie up, baseball hat pulled low over his brow. The librarian at the reception counter is no-nonsense, eyeing him suspiciously until he grunts out that he’d like to sign up for a library card. After a moment he adds: “Please.”

He thinks he sees a brief smile flash across her face before she becomes business-like again, pulling out a sheet of paper and marking the areas he needs to fill out. 15 minutes later, Pete Castiglione is the proud owner of his first library card.

He glances at the temporary card (he’ll pick up the real one in a couple of days), before catching the librarian’s eye again. “Anything you would suggest, ma’am?”

He’s certain he sees her smile this time. “Well, what do you typically like, dear?”

He shrugs. “Older stuff, I guess. Whatever’s good.” She arches an eyebrow at this, and the corner of his mouth quirks. She must hear that one a lot. “Maybe something a little… lighter?” He finds he doesn’t want to read more about wars or quests, searches for unattainable salvation.

He ends up leaving with a battered collection of essays by James Thurber. He hasn’t read much nonfiction before, if you didn’t count intel or reports or the New York Bulletin, but the librarian says (in a slightly teasing tone) that it might even make him laugh. It’s too warm outside for the heavy jacket he’s wearing, and he catches a whiff of sweetness from a nearby community garden. It smells like perfume.

Later that afternoon, he finally picks up the phone and sends a text to David Lieberman, and he tries not to think too hard about why.

*

 He really shouldn’t be surprised when his phone rings a couple of hours later, as he lies on his bed, reading. _Of course. She’s not the type of girl who sits around waiting for a guy to call first_ , he thinks, and yet he still freezes for a moment, a deer in the headlights.

Part of him had still thought that she might be angry at him for not reaching out sooner, maybe for leaving her alone in that elevator, even if she had told him to go. That she might just tell Lieberman that he could tell Frank Castle to go fuck himself. Maybe she was calling to say it on her own. That would be more her style.

He sits up, the James Thurber book tumbling to the floor (the librarian had been right, it was funny), and finally turns the phone over. The number on the screen isn’t saved into the phone, but he recognizes it as hers. He runs a hand through his hair, grown slightly shaggier than the last time he had seen her. Less bloody, too.

Suddenly frustrated with himself, he punches the side of his leg once, twice, building himself up. _Don’t be a fucking coward_. And he picks up the phone.

The silence as he holds the phone to his ear is almost deafening, and he vaguely realizes he can hear his own heartbeat. Very faintly, he can also hear breathing on the other end of the line. _Talk, asshole_ , he tells himself, _you owe her that much._

“Hello?” he rasps.

And she _laughs_.

*

Karen had wanted to call the number that Lieberman had given her almost as soon as he walked away, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to be out here, alone, at “their spot” (a thought that makes her want to roll her eyes at herself), if he didn’t pick up. If it went to voicemail or something.

She remembers a year or two ago, when she’d had one more whiskey than was good for her and called her parent’s place on Christmas Eve. The number had been disconnected.

She can't do that again.

So, she takes the train home, high heels digging into the sides of her feet, fluorescent lights illuminating her pale face in the window. She looks shaken, even to herself, but that’s hardly enough to make anyone notice her on the MTA.

The train seems to take even longer than usual, but she finally gets off a few blocks from her apartment. She’s at her front door when she thinks, out of the blue, _I don’t have any beer_. It seems absolutely absurd, but next thing she knows she finds herself halfway to the bodega at the end of her block, walking quickly despite the pain in her feet. She grabs the first brand she sees and throws $15 on the counter, telling the sleepy-looking cashier to keep the change.

At last, she’s unlocking her apartment door. She’s in a rush, but never incautious. She forces herself to check the room for anything disturbed, making sure the window’s intact and nothing’s out of place. Only then does she relax, at least a little, kicking those damn heels into a corner, setting the beer and her purse on the kitchen counter.

She grabs the piece of paper, her phone, and, as an afterthought, one of the beers before going to sit on her second-hand couch (it wasn’t like she could afford a new one, after the last one had been riddled with bullet holes). The only thing left to do is call.

She pops the top off the beer and takes a big swig—she isn’t sure Corona counted as “liquid courage,” but what the hell. She takes a few deep breaths as she punches in the numbers, and listens to the phone ring, once, twice, three times. If he doesn’t pick up, she swears to God…

The phone stops ringing and there’s silence for a moment. Then, finally, finally, a gruff, cautious voice answers. “Hello?”

She doesn’t know where it comes from, but a burst of laughter emerges from her chest, and all of the energy and anxiety that had been whipping around inside of her comes out with it.

_“Hello?” After everything? After saving her life and disappearing and probably almost dying several times, “Hello?”_ She claps a hand over her mouth, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“Karen?” Frank says after a moment, his voice rife with confusion.

“Hi, sorry,” she manages, closing her eyes, letting her mind settle over the sound of him saying her name. “It’s just, ‘hello.’ Everything that’s happened… what a stupid way to answer the phone.”

She can tell he’s a little thrown, but she can still hear some amusement in his voice. “Thought that was what most people usually do.”

“Yeah, that’s most people, Frank,” she replies before she can stop herself. She’s not sure if she’s supposed to be using his name over the phone, although she guesses Lieberman would have warned her if it wasn’t safe.

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” he chuckles, and she’s hit with this strange feeling, almost like being in high school again, while also feeling incredibly old at the same time.

She can’t quite stand it, so she says, “Can I see you?” her voice almost daring him to ask if she’s sure she wants to. They can’t still be doing that anymore.

And to her surprise, this time he doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he says. “You busy?”

“Tonight?” She looks around her slightly messy apartment, then at the beer still sitting on the counter. _Of course._

“Yeah, tonight.”

“I don’t have any plans.” She even manages to sound a little lighthearted.

“Alright, see you in a bit.” Just like that, the other end of the line goes dead, and Karen’s left staring at her phone’s home screen, wondering what the fuck just happened.


End file.
